Why Women Should Vote

I didn't write the following story - I received an email yesterday from a friend with a link to a blog with this story. So, I looked it up on Snopes as is my habit upon receiving email stories from friends and it all checked out. So I'm doing my due diligence and passing it on to all my readers:

This is the story of our Grandmothers and Great-grandmothers; they lived only 90 years ago.


Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.

The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the vote.


And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.'They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.


They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

Thus unfolded the 'Night of Terror' on Nov. 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote.

For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food — all of it colorless slop — was infested with worms.

When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

So, refresh my memory. Some women won't vote this year because — why, exactly? We have carpool duties? We have to get to work? Our vote doesn't matter? It's raining?

Last week, I went to a sparsely attended screening of HBO's new movie 'Iron Jawed Angels.' It is a graphic depiction of the battle these women waged so that I could pull the curtain at the polling booth and have my say. I am ashamed to say I needed the reminder.

All these years later, voter registration is still my passion. But the actual act of voting had become less personal for me, more rote. Frankly, voting often felt more like an obligation than a privilege. Sometimes it was inconvenient.

My friend Wendy, who is my age and studied women's history, saw the HBO movie, too. When she stopped by my desk to talk about it, she looked angry. She was **** with herself. 'One thought kept coming back to me as I watched that movie,' she said. 'What would those women think of the way I use, or don't use, my right to vote? All of us take it for granted now, not just younger women, but those of us who did seek to learn.' The right to vote, she said, had become valuable to her 'all over again.'

HBO released the movie on video and DVD . I wish all history, social studies and government teachers would include the movie in their curriculum I want it shown on Bunco night, too, and anywhere else women gather. I realize this isn't our usual idea of socializing, but we are not voting in the numbers that we should be, and I think a little shock therapy is in order.

It is jarring to watch Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. And it is inspiring to watch the doctor refuse. Alice Paul was strong, he said, and brave. That didn't make her crazy.

The doctor admonished the men: 'Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.'

Please, if you are so inclined, pass this on to all the women you know.

We need to get out and vote and use this right that was fought so hard for by these very courageous women. Whether you vote democratic, republican or independent party - remember to vote.


History is being made.

Two Disgusting Things

My dental hygienist told me today that I have an extraordinary amount of saliva. Way more than most individuals. She showed me where my salivary glands are and said she could actually see the saliva squirting out at one point. Disgusting. But it made me feel weirdly proud at the same time. Like could I go on David Letterman with this?



Also, what's this about John McCain wanting to postpone the debate? What the mess ever. It's such a transparent plot to avoid any publicity for as long as possible. Isn't that exactly what his running mate is doing over seas, as well? They know who their base is and they know it doesn't matter what they do, they will get those votes. If they can just keep from pissing everyone else off, they might have a chance. Again - what. ever. I can't stand it. And this political piece of crap notion of suspending his campaign to go back to Washington to help solve the economic crisis? Really? It's been clear all along that he doesn't know what to do; this is obviously a ploy to take credit once the crisis is resolved...if it gets resolved. Disgusting. But, at the same time, made me feel weirdly proud that I'm not associated with such a farce.

treering

I'm averaging a post twice a month. Sad. David purchased me a couch desk deal from Rite Aid tonight for when I work on my laptop in the living room (in front of the TV) and although it looks sort of like the things I used to see when picking up my dad's medical supplies at Allied Medical, it's really quite wonderful. I can sit any way I want without my legs getting creased and hot from the heat and I don't have to balance anything. Perhaps with this, I'll have the will to live...and post more often. I doubt I'll be posting with any regularity until Lily's at least in high school.

I've been so torn lately with how much time I spend with her. I'm constantly complaining about not spending enough time but the past couple days I feel like I've actually been getting a decent amount of personal time and must say it's been a relief. I feel more relaxed and on top of things but an equal amount of guilt persists. What's that all about? My missed period?

The Cooper/Young festival was last weekend and seemed to go down well. With the exception that my husband wanted hardly anything to do with me due to the insane amount of attention he was getting and starved of, I know. His neglectful behavior was justified but it was sort of disappointing for me, nonetheless. I would never let him know that, though, for fear he would misinterpret my feelings to mean something negative directed at him and how much he deserves to finally be happy about something he's done. He totally deserves every minute of it and I couldn't be more proud and gloaty. I can't believe I actually sent an email to my entire department at work to brag about his stuff. I felt weird but couldn't resist. It's really good; look: www.treering.etsy.com. The plywood tray is my favorite:

Vote

It occurred to me, while watching Obama's acceptance speech Thursday night, how lucky our country would be if he wins the election and becomes our next president And if he's actually able to do all the things he's promising us he'll do.

I believe he will but it occurred to me just how lucky we'll actually be if it does come true. He's spent his adult life working to improve the world and he's willing to spend every waking moment for the next four years of his life to improving mine.

Barack Obama wants to help me live and raise my daughter in a good, strong and kind world and all I have to do is VOTE. It takes about an hour to get to the voting booth, stand in line and punch a button or fill in a circle and drive back home. That's it. That's all I have to do to have someone else do all the work.

My own tale from the basketcase...

Fair Booth Pics

With glowing foreheads,

the black and white film washes away our imperfections.

We look like ancient movie stars.

Or our parents.

My teeth are still a little too big and

his hair is still receding; defectively

accentuating our sincerity. We’re simply

two regular people in love

in the midst of carnie-like bliss.

Faces down in the first picture, still trying to figure out

how the booth-camera works.

The second one we’ve almost mastered it. We’re looking up

but only with astonished “I’ve just seen a UFO”

looks on our faces, or teenagers-at-the-drive-in,

watching “The Day the Earth Stood Still” in 1956.

The tip of the plastic, inflatable alien sits

just below our heads while we attempt to look natural

in the third one, and by the fourth we’ve given up

and the alien has taken over.




[Sadly, I cannot find that last picture where the alien's head is all you can see but you can imagine, surely.]

I've been inspired by sweet | salty. I feel like I've been hit by a bus or some such other awful thing. Sweet Juniper sent me there (thank you) and I have a strong, gut feeling I may never blog the same. I realize why I've been so unable to express myself on a blog before. I've been doing that thing where I emulate whoever I most admire, whether they are my voice or not. Whether or not they resemble my voice, that is. My point of view, my state of being; my intonation has mattered less than mimicking what the others were saying, and if not what they were saying, then how it was being said.

I have a tendency to put folks on pedestals, not to say it is always undeserving, but it is generally without my ability to judge at the point that it happens. I find things to admire (covet?) about people and then I block out everything I dislike until I think they are perfect and when the truth comes barreling through, I'm left in the dust. Trying to figure out what I ever liked about said person in the first place.

I do that far too often. And I think that's what I've been doing in the blogher world lately. Which is unfortunate because I wasn't sufficiently satisfied by it and could have moved on long ago, had I been paying attention.

These women I've been reading are following a pattern. For the past few months I've been reading Dooce religiously, justifying it by believing she is the leader, so to speak. Until I started noticing how disingenuous it all sounds, if you really listen to what she's writing about.

I don't want to go that route right now, though. I'm not here to in/validate Dooce's existence in the blogosphere - afterall, who am I? I'm just saying...that her personality was/is beginning to sound a little too predicatable or polished or - I do hesitate to say, however evasive that is for me to admit - marketable. I don't mean I think she's being managed by anyone outside of herself; I do mean I think she's making her own decisions. But she's managing a business and she knows what sells, so to speak. Just because you're marketing yourself doesn't make it any less ultimately contrived.

Let me get back on track here before I get too far off point.

Kate at sweet | salty has reminded me what writing is all about. It's not about the audience. It's about baring one's soul (I'm unabashedly serious). It's about taking what's inside and putting it to words telling stories, sharing ideas, documenting feeeeeelings. From your core.

That's why I was attracted to writing in the first place. I've always wanted to do that thing that great writers do for me. What happens to me when I read Raymond Carver and Joyce Carol Oates is what I'd like to do to others. The way good writers allow you in their head, in their heart, I want to invite people into mine.

It's always been difficult for me to swallow how alone we truly are here. There is no one in this world who will ever fully understand me. No one has been with me from beginning to end. I cannot accurately explain to someone my every defining moment. But I would like to try and I can only hope to come close.

I've been trying to channel this very desire for years now and I've been too distracted. But I think I'm back. After one weekend - one day, in fact - of reading about her loss, her husband, her remaining boys. I'm hooked. And inspired.

Emotions buried deep have been stirred back to life. I'm immensely grateful. I just hope I don't lose it just as quickly as it came. It does feel fleeting, as good things often do for me. Who taught me to be so skeptical, anyway?

I'm tired now, so I'm going to risk letting a night's sleep push it all back down, dark and alone. If I don't come back, it won't be from lack of desire. It will be from exhaustion, distractedness, LIFE. LIFE keeps happening to me and I'm getting further and further away from leaving it behind in words.

That's always been something I wanted to leave Lily but even in the journal I keep for her, I sound like an idiot. I come across as silly, immature and clueless. I'm so self conscious I'm not even sure I'll give it to her. If I do, what will she think? Will she think she's smarter than me? Will she feel sorry for me? Will she BE smarter than me and appreciate my thoughts and effort but know in the back of her mind that I did the best I could?

As usual, I'm trying too hard to be something I'm not. That's all I'm really trying to say. Not that Dooce is bad, not that the women I've been reading are not worthy. Just that this Kate person has opened my eyes to something I'm having a very hard time naming. I'll work on it.

Vacation!

I'm on vacation this week and even though it's only Monday, I've been able to spend a lot more time with Lily than normal. I struggle with not being in the position to stay at home with her. Sometimes I even resent my husband for getting to bond with her and make the impression on her I wish I was making. The fact that he doesn't appreciate every waking hour in her presence is more than I can even comprehend. Of course I think he's a wonderful father, if I didn't I wouldn't agree to leaving her here with him every day. I even suspect he might have more patience than I do for the most part. His desire for her to become a scientist (or do whatever makes her happy) and how he teaches her please and thank you by actually saying please and thank you, and that he takes her to lunch with his mother almost every week even though he's not accustomed to seeing his mother once a month tops, and how he shows her how to use a band saw or swing on a homemade swing from a tree, his love for her is clear. He's just not the person who wants to play with a 2 year old all day long. Every day. Forever. Crazy, I know.

Anyway, her exzema has been flaring up the past couple of days and she's been itching like crazy. She hardly slept the other night for scratching and waking us up more than a couple times while she screamed about her intense frustration. So I took her to the doctor this morning to find out what I can give her to get some relief. And to avoid scratching all the way to Wisconsin.

For some reason, she doesn't like doctors anymore. I told Dr. Best I didn't know why she was so frightened and she said it's because she's two. I hope so, otherwise I'd wonder what evil thing Lily was sensing about Dr. Best. Was it a baby sixth sense kind of thing? I hope not.

Either way, knowing that she hated Dr. Best to no end, I knew the part where she gets her ears checked and her mouth inspected weren't going to go well. This is where I prove I'm the best mother ever. I grabbed her baby cabbage patch doll and quick shoved it between Lily and the doctor, thus insisting the doctor inspect the baby's mouth and check out the baby's ears. As any good doctor would, she successfully does the probing and lays the praise on thick. "What a good job, baby...let's give the baby a big hug!" When it was Lily's turn, she took it like a freaking pro. She even handed her paci to me to hold while she stuck her tongue out with no regret (a tiny bit of hesitation, but no regret). I couldn't believe how awesome it was. And how proud I could be of such a BIG girl.

Then tonight I let her stay up way too late, we were having such a good time together. She swung on the hammock with me listening to all the outside noises in our neighborhood. We heard the wind rustling through the trees, cars pulling out of their driveways, daddy cutting wood in the shop and dogs barking. I was sincerely thinking about how I would explain the gunshot if that was the next noise. Fireworks? Thunder? The big bang...again? She acted so surprised every time there was a new sound, that big "OHHHH" face of mock surprise. Only coming from Lily, I don't think it was mocking anything. I think she was really terribly excited by each and every sound she heard. Then she scooted down to my belly where she could put her head down without her cheek sticking to my chest skin. She's funny about skin on skin, apparently.

We also went swimming today (I apologize but I can't not tell you about the bathing suit I found at the Gap today for $31 on sale from $50 when the Gap store I was in doesn't even normally carry bathing suits the only reason they had the one I found was because someone returned an online order...finding it was perfect in every way) but swimming did not put her in a good mood in spite of her refusal to get out. Every piece of dirt that made it into the water was highly distressing. I have no idea how a child of mine could have such issues with dirt. "It's diwwwwty...it's diwwwty!" Our house is not short of dirt in any way. In fact, it's a disaster most of the time, it's not like she's un-used to finding tiny pieces of dirt...oh, everywhere.

Go back and re-read that part where I pulled out the cabbage patch doll at the doctor's office as a reminder of what a good mom I am regardless of the DIRT.